Keeping Up Appearances
by Massani
Summary: "Dolores Umbridge looked once more at the papers on her desk, hoping that this time, the seemingly meaningless lines scrawled across the page would make sense to her."
**Written for the QLFC:
Position: **Beater 2, Holyhead Harpies  
 **Prompts:  
** Write about someone's hatred for Defence Against the Dark Arts  
8 (picture) [scribbles on lined paper]  
14 (quote) 'The starting point of all achievement is desire.' - Napoleon Hill  
 **Word Count:** 1,370

 **Thanks to Lizzie for beta'ing!**

* * *

Dolores Umbridge looked once more at the papers on her desk, hoping that this time, the seemingly meaningless lines scrawled across the page would make sense to her.

Her Inquisitorial Squad recovered this piece of parchment from one of Potter's cronies. Was it Vincent who had brought it to her, or perhaps Graham? She couldn't remember. Whoever it was, he had caught the Weasley twins furiously scribbling on this scrap of parchment, and he'd confiscated it from them. The poor boy had ended up shoved in a vanishing cabinet, but he'd still managed to bring her the paper. And now, after all his efforts, all she could do was look hopelessly at the paper, completely at a loss as to what is could mean but certain it had something to do with breaking a rule.

It looked like an innocent doodle: one long, haphazard line meandering across the parchment in an abstract design that lacked rhyme or reason. But the Weasley twins were involved, and that meant it was something more. It was infuriating. Not only was this piece of parchment a testament to her failure to find the group she knew to be practicing Dark Arts, but it seemed as if this had been drawn to personally offend her. She felt a rage building inside.

"Reducto!"

The antique tea set on Dolores's desk shattered into pieces. She watched helplessly as tea spread across her desk, obscuring the parchment with mismatched brown stains. Whatever chance she had of deciphering the code vanished.

She sighed and incinerated the soggy page before repairing the tea set. It had belonged to her mother, and despite the Muggle filth it represented, the colours matched up perfectly with Dolores's office. The subtle pink of the rose pattern blended nicely with her walls, and so she kept it on display. Appearances were everything, after all.

She recalled a time when Argus, trying to win her favour, had bought her a new teapot. It was a ghastly thing ̶—bright orange, with splotches of yellow on its porcelain spout. It clashed with every decorative kitten plate, not to mention the rosy hue of her carpet. Dolores had wanted to smash him across the head with it, but it wouldn't do to alienate one of her most steadfast allies. So she had thanked him and, once he'd left the room, promptly destroyed the teapot.

Honestly. The man was loyal to a fault, but brains he did not possess. The teapot had been repulsive, and she couldn't bear the idea of being anything less than perfection. She had to be desirable, and that included everything from her clothes to her office. After all, the starting point of all achievement was desire, and Dolores Umbridge intended to achieve.

It wasn't for her own benefit that she spent over two hours every morning painstakingly doing her hair, applying her makeup, and dressing from head to toe in a beautiful array of pinks and purples. It was for everyone else's. She had to look desirable, maybe not in the typical sense of the word, but she had to look as if people wanted to be on her team. She had to be the sort of person that appeared to be in control.

Dolores pursed her lips and tried to remember what the Weasleys's parchment had looked like. She had to focus on the infestations at Hogwarts. There were hundreds of pressing issues such as the headmaster's insistence that the oafish caretaker remain in his employ and the new half-breed divination teacher lumbering about downstairs. Her top priority however was the insurgent group that had sprung up within the castle. She heard whispers about it, and her interrogations had turned those whispers into screams.

"Dumbledore's Army."

Cornelius had been right. Dumbledore was plotting against him, planning to take over the ministry by force. The teachers were on his side too: Minerva, Filius, and that lumbering brute Hagrid. Dumbledore had to be stopped, that much was clear, but Dolores couldn't go to Cornelius with rumours and murmurings. She needed something more concrete, which made it all the more infuriating that she was unable to find out anything about them.

Through her various methods she had uncovered bits here and there. A few drops of veritaserum, a few choice words and a curse or two had led her to the seventh floor, and she had a vague idea of the members. Potter, Granger, Longbottom and the Weasleys were certainties, but she'd have to catch them in the act to really prove anything. Dumbledore, that aging tosspot, would worm his way out of it, otherwise.

It was insulting that they'd start this group in direct defiance to her teachings. It wasn't like she enjoyed teaching ̶ it didn't come naturally to her ― but the fact that they would perform magic she had forbidden was disgusting.

Worst still was the subject that this Dumbledore's Army had chosen to focus on. Had this been a Transfiguration study group or a Potions booster, it would have been almost acceptable. But they had chosen the worst possible subject to focus around. Defence Against the Dark Arts. She loathed it. What an abhorrent idea, creating a subject dedicated to understanding—and _sympathizing with_ —Werewolves, Merpeople, Trolls, and other disgusting animals.

And here she was, teaching it, being forced to corrupt young witches and wizards with thoughts that any of these filthy creatures could be remotely relatable. The subject was awash with lies and miscommunications. It was nothing short of an abomination, and as much as she detested teaching it, she was glad that Cornelius had put her in charge so that she could change the course from the useless nonsense it currently was.

And look at the thanks she got: Dumbledore's Army was scuttling about the corridors and making mockery of her rulings, flinging jinxes and undergoing training for their upcoming campaign. True, a group of teenagers could never pose a threat to Cornelius's Aurors, but nevertheless, it was a disturbing thought that they'd even try. Dolores had always believed that bravery was just another word for stupidity.

A sudden knock at the door wrenched her from her thoughts and back into reality.

"Yes?"

The door opened, and Argus peered round the door frame into her room. "Excuse me, miss, but it's only that Marietta Edgecombe is here to see you."

"Send her in."

Argus departed quickly with a nod, closing the door behind him. Dolores sighed audibly. Sometimes she still regretted having the caretaker as her doorman. He wasn't exactly well-liked, and he somewhat isolated her from the rest of the faculty. The worst part, though, was his appearance. Today he was dressed in another ratty brown vest and trousers caked with what she really hoped was mud. It didn't really do to have someone so dishevelled to greet her guests.

She retrieved her pocket mirror from the folds of her dress and looked at her reflection. Slightly smudged eyeliner and a little smeared mascara, but nothing that took much effort to fix. She walked over to her desk, absentmindedly wondering why Argus had not sent the girl in yet. Perhaps he was waiting for another order?

She got out her makeup and made the necessary adjustments to her face and then straightened her cardigan and skirt for good measure. It wouldn't do to have creases.

The door opened. "Professor Umbridge? I have something that I need to tell you."

Dolores turned around to see a young girl with strawberry-blonde hair falling in curls around her shoulders. On another girl it would have been very pretty, but it didn't suit this girl at all. The messy curls only served to accentuate the scruffiness of her attire: an untucked shirt and jumper covered in array of creases. The reddish hue of her hair along, with the paleness of her skin, made the single red spot on her forehead only too obvious.

She was repulsive: an unappealing mix of teenage hormones and limbs too long and gangly for the body that had not yet grown to match them. Still, Dolores forced herself to smile at the poor wretch and gestured for her to take a seat.

After all, appearances were everything.


End file.
